


Carousel

by imperfectkreis



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Anal, Background Slash, Children, Consensual Sex, Fingering, Fix-It, Gods, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Tentacle Sex, Unplanned Pregnancy, agender character pregnancy, agender character using masculine pronouns, vore references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 01:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14760282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: Gwyndolin has long assumed his demise, his irrelevance as the Age of Fire drew to its end. Only, the certainty of his destruction keeps shifting beneath him, leaving him unable to find stability, much less hope.





	Carousel

The searing agony of being consumed ebbs and fades, giving way to a torturous, dull emptiness. A nothing that is cavernous, unceasing. And Gwyndolin can only assume that he has finally died. The Saint of the Deep having digested his bones, his flesh, his soul. Churned him up and reduced Gwyndolin to nothing but a faded memory. The last god confined to Anor Londo. A pretty prisoner to keep the city bathed in holy light. However false. Gwyndolin's burden.

But why then, is he able to feel nothing?

Throbbing, steady pain returns. But this time, the sensation is different than the burn of Aldrich’s acidic insides. Bearable. Yes, he aches, but not enough to blot out all else. Inside Aldrich, he nearly forgot himself. His name, his place, his birthright to this world.

And then, then, Gwyndolin finally screams. He has held back for so long, never wishing to give Aldrich the satisfaction of knowing his terrible agony. But in this moment of abject suffering, Gwyndolin cannot help but cry out. Aldrich has been slowly, viciously consuming him for decades, and Gwyndolin does not wish to entertain what pleasures may be yet to come in his capacity to be cruel.

“Shhh, shhhh, it's alright. You're alright. Oh, gods….” the voice that comforts him now is kind, warmly masculine. “I've just got to...hmm,” the stranger drapes something, a blanket or a cloak, over Gwyndolin’s shoulders, pulling it around to his chest and trying to wrap him tight.

Gwyndolin reaches for the fabric, trying to lose himself in the plush feel of it. He's quite cold indeed. Ah...yes, the Age of Fire has been ending for a long time. Perhaps it is better if Aldrich finishes his meal quickly. Otherwise, Gwyndolin’s soul will be blotted out before the Saint truly gets a taste.

“I told your sister,” the voice returns, “that she would see you again soon. We can't be letting her down, can we?”

Strong arms slide underneath his torso, hoisting him up off the ground with ease. The steel of the stranger's gauntlets dig into Gwyndolin's back. Eyes now open, his head lolls back, to gaze upon the cathedral ceiling over his head. He dare not turn. Gwyndolin has no desire to face his new captor. and then there is the simmering fear of knowing for certain what has become of his lower half, how much Aldrich gnawed away, beyond repair, in his centuries of digestion. 

Fluid rises in Gwyndolin’s throat, though he knows not if it is saliva, bile, or blood. Only that he feels as if he is drowning above water.

He simply wishes he had died.

That is, until he hears Yorshka’s sweet voice, his name on her lips. Then the pretty cry of, “Brother, oh brother!” As the knight sets him down on the ground. She takes Gwyndolin’s hand in both of hers, her slender, scaled fingers twinning in between his.

“I need to…” the knight murmurs, tugging off his helmet and placing it on the ground next to Gwyndolin.

Turning his head away, Gwyndolin looks at Yorshka instead, avoiding too much familiarity with the unkindled. “You're safe,” he rasps, surprised that his voice works at all. It has been so long since he has spoken.

Yorshka has her chime in hand, grasping it tightly and whispering lovely miracles to soothe his pain. But there is another pressure, exerted on his lower half. Too late, he realizes it is the unkindled who touches him.

“Shh,” Yorshka comforts, once she has finished her chant. She runs her fingers through Gwyndolin’s hair. “He's only bandaging. The miracle will help. But if your wounds tear open, you will be in great pain.”

Gwyndolin grits his teeth. He does not need this human touching him, scrapping coarse, dirty fingers against his battered flesh. But he bites his tongue for the sake of Yorshka. And...yes, the unkindled saved him from Aldrich’s maw. But he still does not know why. There are many reasons why a man would wish to tame a god. Particularly one who cannot escape. None of those reasons are kind.

Reaching up under Yorshka’s veil, he strokes against his dear sister’s hair. She seems to trust the human well enough. But she has always been hopelessly naive. If any harm should come to her, Gwyndolin will not be merciful. But, if the unkindled is indeed of the noble sort, perhaps this is the boon that will finally keep Yorshka safe, after Gwyndolin is gone.

\--

He sleeps for a long time. Yorshka has cast a miracle to ensure he does not wake along the journey to the shrine. And when he finally does regain consciousness, Gwyndolin realizes days have passed, perhaps weeks. Time is strange at the threshold of two Ages.

Yorshka isn't there, but another woman is at his bedside. A nun of Carim. She speaks to him gently, promising that his sister has only stepped away for a moment, if he would like, she might go fetch her.

Gwyndolin bids her to find his sister, taking the moment he has alone to appraise his room. It is small, little more than a stone-enclosed cell. Gwyndolin nearly laughs. He only ever exchanges one prison for another. At least there is a window, a narrow slit in the wall that opens up onto the bright gray sky. There is enough room for a practical, sturdy basin by the bedside, necessary to wash a patient’s wounds. Aldrich was all but fully of the Deep by the time he began his feast. And miracles alone will not heal the damage done to Gwyndolin. Perhaps nothing ever shall.

Irina does not return to the room, but Yorshka does, her normally-pale cheeks a ruddy color, as if she has exerted herself. She throws her arms around his shoulders, explaining that she was just outside in the graveyard. The Hollows do not bother her in the slightest. When left alone, they are gentle creatures. Oh, she was confined to the Tower Prison for so long. It's wonderful to be able to walk freely again. 

Gasping sharply, she apologizes. And Gwyndolin still cannot bring himself to pull back the sheets. He tries to make the serpents move, to dance, but the blanket covering him from the waist down remains still. 

Despite Aldrich’s accursed magics, Gwyndolin should be able to rebuild himself...somehow. After all, he is a god. But he does not yet know how, or if he has the strength. Even sitting up for a few moments now, he's exhausted. 

“Where are we?” he finally asks. Because he must say something. As he slept, he heard mutterings of a shrine. But he wishes to know for certain.

Yorshka explains, “the Firelink Shrine. Janus, the Ashen One, he thought this would be the safest place….”

“He killed Aldrich?”

Yorshka nods, “I could not see. But he told me that he did. And then he cut you free.”

Gwyndolin does not know how to explain that in the absence of the Devourer, he has nothing left to fear. Except the coming of the Age of Dark. “Does he mean to link to the Fire?” Gwyndolin asks.

Yorshka opens and closes her pinked mouth, “I believe so. He has gone now to the Grand Archives. To the Prince who refused the Fire. But…”

“What is it, darling?” he must know.

“There is a woman here...of Londor. She...protested when we arrived. Janus forbade her from entering your chamber. Either Irina or I have watched over you. We’re supposed to yell if she tries to see you. She called Janus ‘Lord.’ I think Janus is very good. But I do not like this woman.”

This woman is a servant of Kaathe, no doubt. And the Ashen One plays a dangerous game. He has not killed her. But nor does he allow her to slaughter the god in his possession. Discerning his motives is impossible with so little information. But Kaathe would have no reason to harm Yorshka. Gwyndolin, however, is another matter. 

Gwyndolin tells Yorshka he is tired. He would like to rest. And she should enjoy the graves, and the shrine. Really, everything this world has to offer. He wants nothing more than for Yorshka to bathe in sunlight. Before this Age comes to an end.

\--

Janus returns, with more unwelcome guests. Gwyndolin can hear him quarrel, with the woman who calls him Lord with a bitter tongue. He tells her that he has not forgotten. He will do what is right.

Gwyndolin learns later that Janus did not take the soul of the Lothric Prince as he was commanded by the ringing bells. No, the Ashen One is apparently too stubborn for that. He brought the entire, sickly royal to the shrine instead. And the brother who shares his curse. They chatter loudly in the halls.

The Kiln is not prepared. And neither is Janus. 

In time, Janus comes to see him personally, his helmet removed, dark hair framing his hollowed face. Still, Gwyndolin can tell he is trying to force a smile, and his voice is just as bright as the day he defeated Aldrich. 

“Yorshka said you were doing well,” Janus’ eyes are sunken, dark. Before his first death he may have well been handsome. He may have still been after twenty, thirty, more. Now he does nothing to hide his ugliness.

Gwyndolin has many questions, but none of the answers matter. He bites his tongue, suddenly frightened when he realizes Janus can see the grey of his eyes. Gwyndolin does not know what became of his crown.

“Do you mean to take my soul?” he finally asks.

Janus purses his lips, shifting his helmet against his hip. The answer is clear. He has not yet decided. The woman of Londor wishes for the flame to die, no doubt. Though Gwyndolin cannot claim to know the exact details of Kaathe’s machinations. And Janus must still waver. This is why both Gwyndolin and the Princes are still alive...or something approaching living. Janus will need souls, no matter which path he chooses. The question is, whose?

“I hope it will not come to that,” Janus finally responds.

\--

The Elder Prince comes to see Gwyndolin, uninvited and deeply unwanted. Though he was said to share his brother’s curse, crippled, mute, and nearly blinded, he now appears healthy, strong, standing on two legs against the opposite wall, staring at Gwyndolin as if he is something strange.

Gwyndolin recognizes him immediately. He has the pallor and silver hair that can only come from the god’s touch, distant as it may be. But his soul is dark. That of a human boy. A mongrel. The royal family of Lothric committed many sins in the hopes of breeding a perfect Lord for the Flames. The stories say that the younger brother is even more an amalgamation of horrific parts. And after him, a child that is naught but monster.

“Janus sends his regards,” the Prince speaks, his voice dark and full of grit, as if he has not used it in a long time. “He wishes to know if you are well.”

“Why?” Gwyndolin asks, pulling the sheets tossed around his body more tightly to his frame. As if the soft fabric might protect him, at least from the Prince’s piercing stare. Lorian’s eyes are blue, bright and clear, as only a human’s could be.

The Prince shifts his weight, giving away a nervousness unbecoming of his station. “He did not tell me why.”

“Do you serve him now? Do you wish to be favored by the Hollows who will inherit this world?” If he cannot have Janus’ plans, he might at least coax Lorian to share his.

The Prince shakes his head, “As always, I serve my Lord.”

Gwyndolin hums. Though he is already growing tired from conversation, he recognizes that for the time being, he has the upper hand on Lorian. He is a noble child, and he is god-blooded. With that, Lorian should have all the confidence in the world. And yet he is bashful, shy in Gwyndolin’s presence. How strange. 

Then again, the curse upon the boy has only recently been lifted. Gwyndolin wonders if his brother has changed as well. Perhaps this unsteadiness is only temporary, until Lorian learns his confidence anew. After all, he was once known as a grand slayer of Demons. Far more worthy of adoration than an extraneous god locked away in a deceased city.

“And who does your Lord serve?” Gwyndolin asks. Soon he will have to send Lorian away. Even now his strength is waning. And he wishes the Prince gone before he gives way to exhaustion.

Lorian frowns, a crease forming between his brows. Though he is far younger, newer to the cycles than Gwyndolin, he is still an ancient. They all are. Even the frailest of men.

“He remains in conversation with Janus.”

As much as Gwyndolin wishes to know what that means, he tells Lorian to leave. Informing him that he may say what he wishes to Janus the Unkindled. It doesn't matter what the human thinks.

\--

Gwyndolin grows fond of Irina, as he has always been fond of Yorshka. She is sweet and mild and eager to please, trading off with Yorshka to keep him company and clean his bandages. Though she is blind, she has gentle hands, and Gwyndolin does not correct her when she comments that his wounds feel much better. That he must be healing fast, in truth, he is still in agony. Though, day by day, the serpents grow longer, they are still too short and fragile to support his body. And thus he remains bedridden.

He can hear quite clearly Janus’ return, coupled with the Younger Prince’s voice. The little one, destined for Lordship, was said to be a powerful sorcerer, despite the frailness of his body, and Gwyndolin wonders if he has been accompanying Janus and Lorian in their preparations for the Kiln. Or if he is simply silent while his brother and savior are away.

Irina says she must go greet the Ashen One, to see if he requires her assistance. Gwyndolin cannot begrudge her that. Janus is, after all, the one who saved her from her cell, brought her to this shrine. He saved Gwyndolin as well, but that is a sin not so easily forgiven.

“He was your father, was he not?” Janus’ deep, resonant voice carries across the shrine. Or perhaps it is simply that Gwyndolin’s senses are particularly acute. This is the only time he has left Anor Londo...and he is unsure how his senses compare to others’ perceptions.

Lorian remains silent while his brother speaks for them both. “He...did terrible things. Of that we are aware. Even after he thought himself to have bred the perfect Lord of Cinder,” there is bitterness in Lothric's voice, “I was not enough. And he still made another monstrosity of a son.”

“That does not mean that you carry no fondness at all for him…”

“I have pity for him, perhaps,” Lothric admits. “But he didn't recognize me. You saw yourself. I stood before him and he did not even know my name. Too consumed by little Ocelotte.”

“Perhaps,” what follows is the familiar sounds of knights removing armor, setting battered steel aside. 

Gwyndolin relaxes against the headrest. Though he still cannot walk, some of his strength has begun to return. Enough that he may sit up to read or speak. He waits, hoping to hear more of the conversation between the Prince and Unkindled. This may be Gwyndolin’s best hope at learning what is happening outside the shrine. And in Janus’ head as well.

“What of you, Lorian?” Janus asks the other son.

A quiet grunt is all that comes from Lorian. It is Lothric who again answers for him, “Oceiros was cruel to him.”

“Oh,” there is a frown in Janus’ voice, “I am sorry.”

“Mother loved Lorian dearly. Until she went away. I heard she was very pretty. But I cannot remember her face.”

“She was kind,” is all that Lorian offers.

The party moves further away from Gwyndolin’s room. And the last piece of conversation that he manages to catch is Irina’s silver bell of a voice, finally breaking through, asking the Ashen One if he would like to hear a miracle? He replies, “yes, of course,” and Gwyndolin is at least satisfied that he is not a brute.

\--

Gwyndolin knows someone is in his darkened room. Someone safe. Someone kind. He expects it to be his sister, or Irina, come to check on him. But when he opens his eyes to see Lorian, he cannot help but recoil.

“It must be pleasant,” Lorian averts his eyes, “to have such beautiful ladies in waiting.” 

Gwyndolin stares at the strange boy, the man, unable to discern the meaning behind his words, “they have lovely souls.” Has be broken into Gwyndolin’s room only to comment upon those maidens who keep his company?

“I'm sure,” Lorian concedes.

Gwyndolin frowns, continuing to study the Prince. He is tall and lean, as the Irithyllians tend towards. With bright eyes that mark them as humans, rather than proper gods. Lorian’s face is hauntingly symmetrical, with a squared jaw and high cheeks. The maidens of Lothric called him handsome, once. And whispered about how he was not as terribly malformed as the younger sons. Human women would speak of bedding him, so their children might look like gods as well. But now, Gwyndolin sees the traits of men most clearly rendered on Lorian’s bones.

“Does the Ashen One have another question for me?” Gwyndolin sighs when Lorian says nothing.

Lorian shifts his weight uncomfortably. “No...I wished to see for myself how you fared.”

How bothersome. “I am here. Tethered. Janus does not need to worry about my escaping. I have nowhere to go. The City of Gods is finally well and truly dead. And I trust, at least, he has no use for Yorshka’s soul. I only wish that he spares her. No matter what his plans for me.”

“I said I'm not here for him,” Lorian scowls. “How are your legs?”

The question is a ridiculous one, “I have no legs.” And the serpents are still headless, denying him the ability to use them properly. Gwyndolin has begun to wonder if they will ever heal completely.

“I only meant…” Lorian stumbles, “After Janus came to us, freed us from our grave, my brother’s curse began to lift. He walks again, and so do I….I only thought….”

“Lothric’s curse was in his soul,” Gwyndolin surmises, “Janus…” what did the Unkindled do? “The Flame is going out. Maybe that is why. Perhaps leaving a cursed city lifted your afflictions. I do not know. Perhaps it is your brother’s willingness to fulfill his destiny that allows him to walk.”

“He is not linking with the flame,” Lorian says with complete confidence. “Janus says he has not decided. But no longer will we men be at the mercy of apathetic gods.”

Gwyndolin recoils at his words, “then why are you in my bed chamber?”

“Our mother was a god,” Lorian hesitates, “but you do not look like her.”

“You are disappointed,” Gwyndolin states plainly. Lorian’s mother was not a god. Only descended from one. Gwynevere’s gift to humankind, tossed and turned through generations of men’s veins.

Lorian shakes his head, “No, I'm not disappointed….but I find that I cannot stay away.” His lips part gently, revealing wet, pink flesh inside. Such a contrast to his moon-pale skin. Lorian is undoubtedly alive, and not yet hollowed. The curse has left him remarkably intact.

“Do not stare,” Gwyndolin commands, when he grows rather sick of Lorian’s gaze. “I am not an animal to be kept and observed for pleasure.”

Lorian jerks his head, coming to his senses. “I apologize. I forgot myself for a moment...I shall go.”

“Yes,” Gwyndolin encourages him, “that would be for the best.”

After Lorian slips away, Gwyndolin presses the heel of his hand hard to his chest, trying to will his heart to slow down. The door through which Lorian passed remains empty far too long. And it is not until Yorshka comes to visit that Gwyndolin finally feels at ease.

\--

When he wakes to Lorian in his room again, Gwyndolin no longer has the right to be surprised.

“You had a brother,” Lorian starts without preamble, “one who was taken from you.”

Gwyndolin has not spoken of him for so long, though when he first sheltered Yorshka, he couldn't help but speak fondly of the Nameless one. “Yes.”

“We went to Anor Londo,” Lorian shakes his head, “Janus and I, there was unfinished business to which he had to attend…” Lorian chews at his lips before continuing, “The statues were broken, his name struck away, an entire child of Gwyn, reduced to nothing.”

Gwyndolin pushes against the mattress with his arms, trying to get upright in bed. He can manage on his own, it just takes time. As the serpents gain strength, it should become easier. But when Lorian sees him struggling, he is quick to Gwyndolin’s bedside, slotting his hands under Gwyndolin’s armpits and hoisting it up so he's properly seated with his back against the headrest.

As he pulls away, Lorian realizes what he has done, turning his head so he does not meet Gwyndolin's eyes, “My apologies. I should not have presumed to touch you.”

“It is fine,” Gwyndolin says, surprisingly truthful. It is not that others do not touch him. Irina in particular needs her hands to see. And she is always gentle. Lorian is gentle too.

Lorian speaks again, “Do you still miss him? After all this time?”

Gwyndolin feigns no hesitation, “Yes.”

“In time,” Lorian explains, “he will no longer need me. And I am at a loss.”

Lorian’s behavior is very strange. But, for the first time, Gwyndolin thinks he may begin to understand. “He will continue to love you,” Gwyndolin states with confidence. “His dependence was not a condition of his love.”

“Perhaps,” Lorian says, hope returning to his voice.

\--

Lorian comes to him again. He must know that the maidens are away. His silver hair tied back, the light from the window catches in the strands, plating them near-copper. Soon enough, there will be no sun. And all that once was will fade.

“Will you send me away again?” Lorian whispers, his fingers knotted together. He is dressed plainly, in a rumpled shirt and loose fitting trousers, perhaps he was training for combat with Janus or his brother. There is little mystery left that Janus counts the Princes among his closest allies. There is talk of strange sciences echoing through the walls. That they are trying to deceive the hands of fate. 

But the Princes, as much as anyone, should know the terrors that await on the other side of experimentation. The horrors sure to slip through the cracks in their carefully made plans. But humans are stupid creatures. It makes it difficult to not be fond of them. 

Gwyndolin shakes his head, “What is it that you want?”

Lorian takes a shaky breath, stalking towards the bedside. He smells of sweat and ash and death as he kneels at Gwyndolin’s side, laying his hands on the edge of the bed and bowing his head. “I can think of little else...since I touched you.”

Gwyndolin stares at him, uncertain what he is meant to say. There have been so precious few who have even wished to lay their hands on him. His sisters, Irina, briefly Janus, but only as he carried Gwyndolin to safety. Aldrich as he was consumed, swallowed down. And Gwyndolin cannot help but sense that Lorian’s desire is closest to the latter. 

“Please,” Lorian whines, “it will drive me mad.”

Nodding, Gwyndolin is uncertain what to what he agrees, a brush of Lorian’s fingers, perhaps, on his hand, against his jaw. But he does not expect the rush of Lorian’s enthusiasm, darting into bed and kneeling across from Gwyndolin. Fussing the the sheets, he wraps his arms around Gwyndolin’s waist. He hoists Gwyndolin off the mattress, repositioning him so that his tendrils spread over Lorian’s lap, Gwyndolin’s back positioned against the headboard for stability.

Gwyndolin squawks in a way unbecoming of his lineage as he is manipulated, Lorian’s arms still wrapped firmly around his back, holding their bodies close. Embarrassment flushes over his skin at being so exposed. Though he is dressed in a long tunic, his lower extremities remain uncovered, clean white bandages wrapped around the ends of the serpents as they continue to regrow. The ends are still too raw to leave exposed.

He struggles to grab the sheets, trying to pull them over his lap to cover his deformities. Pushing Lorian away would be the more logical step, scolding him for being too forward, too coarse and human and weak. But instead, Gwyndolin struggles with the bedding, until Lorian grabs it up himself, careful to drape the fabric over them both, so that their hips and legs and tendrils are covered.

“Better?” Lorian asks, with an innocence that Gwyndolin dare not break. 

Gwyndolin nods, unsure what to do with his hands, now that he is not tangled in the sheets.

Lorian takes Gwyndolin’s wrist in the circle of his fingers, putting his arm around his neck, then the other. “Please,” he whispers, “like this.”

The intimate familiarity of the embrace is not lost on Gwyndolin. He wraps his arms around Lorian’s shoulders, as Lorian rocks into him, trying to bring their bodies closer. Lorian tucks his face against Gwyndolin’s neck, his breath quick and feverish. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Lorian whines as Gwyndolin clings to him. Though he is still mostly numb below the waist, Gwyndolin can still feel the change in pressure as Lorian grows hard beneath him, his length pressing into Gwyndolin’s flesh, between his tendrils, against where his body starts to resemble a human’s once again. 

But Lorian does not ask for more, content, it seems, simply to hold Gwyndolin in his arms, press their chests together and breathe in the scent of him. Lorian’s hair is silky against Gwyndolin’s skin. And the sensation of being so close to another being is so strange, so foreign, that Gwyndolin finds himself overwhelmed, simply holding on to Lorian’s shoulders until he manages to center his sense of self again. 

Growing bolder, Lorian puts his lips to Gwyndolin’s neck, his jaw, still closed-mouthed and dry, but the desire is clear enough. He clutches tightly to Gwyndolin, rocking him backwards until they are flush to the headboard once again, Lorian’s cock grinding against Gwyndolin’s battered body. 

The wetness against Gwyndolin’s neck spreads as Lorian cannot stop from crying. Though his sorrow is a quiet one. He fights against his baser instincts, trying to keep from thrusting, from pushing Gwyndolin too far. This intimacy is a gift, after all. Gwyndolin himself cannot parse if he enjoys it, or not. Though he does not find the weight of Lorian’s body against his own to be unpleasant. The warmth of it is rather welcome. But as Lorian begins to shake with creeping want, Gwyndolin knows their time together is rapidly coming to a close. 

Lorian starts to pull away, though he is clearly far from satisfied. With Gwyndolin still sprawled across his lap, he presses his lips chastely to Gwyndolin’s mouth in thanks, in worship, in apology. 

“I will go…” Lorian says. And Gwyndolin will not force him to stay. Whatever dream this might be, they must both wake from it.

\--

The Shrine is awash in activity. Soon, Janus has told them, soon he will go to meet the Flame. Yorshka brings Gwyndolin the news, as Irina is busy assisting the Ashen One. There is a hesitant excitement in her sweet face. Whatever is to come, she looks forward to it, like a child awaiting a precious gift. Gwyndolin cannot help but fear. He is more certain than ever that Janus has no intention of linking with the Flame. He will let the embers die. And with them, Gwyndolin.

Yorshka, as a crossbreed, should live on, her dragon’s blood and soul ensuring her survival. But Gwyndolin does not know what become of him, when darkness falls. If the Deep consumes his soul, as Aldrich intended all along? Janus should have left him to die. But he cannot help but be glad that Yorshka will live a happy life without the light.

“The Handmaiden said that we should be glad,” Yorshka says, keeping Gwyndolin’s hand between both of hers. “Janus is precise in his sworn duty. He does not make his decisions hastily. She thinks this is all quite exciting!”

Gwyndolin pulls his hand away so that he may stroke her cheek, pressing into the soft flesh and gentle scales until it dimples. He wishes to remember her like this, glowing, cheerful. He hopes that after he is gone, Irina will continue to keep her company. That she will never again be alone. 

There is a soft knock at his chamber door and Yorshka rises to answer. Gwyndolin’s serpents are as long now as they ever were. But the heads have yet to form. He cannot use them yet to support his weight, the muscles weak from disuse. And he has begun to believe that without their eyes, he will never fully regain functionality to his lower limbs. At the very least, the pain has subsided. 

Lorian stands in the doorway, waiting to be invited inside. Yorshka asks with sweet sincerity if he would like a moment alone with her brother? Lorian stammers, “Yes,” and Yorshka flutters out the door with promises to return once their conversation is concluded.

“You will attend the Ashen One at the Kiln,” Gwyndolin says, not waiting on Lorian to explain himself. 

The now-familiar rebuttal follows, “My Lord...”

“He is not a Lord,” Gwyndolin corrects, “he refused his duty. And now, he, you, the Ashen One, are ready to serve Kaathe’s whims.” He huffs, “you will let the Age of  
Fire end.”

Lorian nods, he will not lie, “We needn't fear the Deep.”

Gwyndolin reels, his frustration and fear simmering. Lorian owes him nothing. And still he feels betrayed. “You needn't fear. The parcel of you soul belongs to the dark.” He cannot help the swell of emotion, and for one bleak moment, he entertains the idea he might be a bastard child, that part of him is dark as well. That Gwyn was not his father, and that was why he was so despised. But Gwyndolin knows that is an untruth. He will always be Gwyn’s child. “You will be welcomed into the next age, where Gods are unwanted.”

Lorian shakes his head, grasping Gwyndolin’s hand between both of his and applying gentle pressure, “I will-” he corrects himself, “no harm will come to you. I will see to it myself.”

Gwyndolin laughs, aware of how broken and terrible it sounds, “No one can protect me. I am the last. The other gods have already met their ends, sweet prince. And I will follow them into oblivion when the flame goes out. There is no other outcome.”

“You are wrong,” Lorian bites before pressing his lips to Gwyndolin’s. Where before he kisses with soft, unsure intensity, this time he meets Gwyndolin with a desperation, though cut through with certainty. “I will leave you with a piece of me,” Lorian babbles, “it will protect you. The dark will know you when it comes.”

Lorian climbs into bed, positioning himself over top of Gwyndolin. He is careful to support his weight, even as he moves to pin Gwyndolin beneath him. Starting at Gwyndolin’s throat, he drags kisses over his neck, down to the collar of his tunic. Sitting back on his heels, Lorian grabs the hem of his tunic, pulling it up over his head.

For the first time, Gwyndolin has a full view of Lorian’s physique, muscular and lean, without a hint of frailty, and a broadness that makes Gwyndolin suddenly feel quite small in comparison. Though, before his maiming, he was certainly taller than Lorian. He has little time to trace the patterns of Lorian’s body with his eyes, because just as quickly, Lorian crawls on top of Gwyndolin, nearly smothering him with heat and affection.

Gwyndolin wraps his arms around Lorian’s shoulders as the prince layers kisses over top of Gwyndolin's tunic. Mouthing over his chest, he pulls at the flesh through the fabric with his lips and teeth, teasing through the barrier of Gwyndolin's shirt. Even with the tunic still on, Gwyndolin can feel how hot Lorian’s mouth is, how wet and wanting as he starts to soak the fabric with his saliva. Gwyndolin arches into the stimulation without a sound, his nails clawing into the muscle of Lorian’s broad shoulders.

Lorian groans in satisfaction as Gwyndolin rakes his nails over bare skin. Panting with desire tha Gwyndolin cannot quite fathom, he pleads that Gwyndolin teach him, show him what will give him pleasure.

Gwyndolin’s mouth falls open. He doesn't know. Carnal pleasures are all but unknown to him. He cannot know the same lust Lorian feels for him. Though every touch and taste between them has soothed an ache inside of him. Plastered over a loneliness that long ago bloomed inside his chest, choking out hopes for anything more.

Running his fingers along the waist of Lorian’s trousers, Gwyndolin bids him, “off,” wishing to see the physical evidence of Lorian’s desire. Without embarrassment, Lorian pushes off the remainder of his clothing, sitting back on his heels so Gwyndolin may drink his fill. Lorian’s smile is a quiet one, perched and waiting for Gwyndolin’s instruction.

“Kiss me again,” Gwyndolin commands, unsure of what else he could ask for. But he knows he enjoys the gentle press of Lorian’s mouth against his, that it stirs something inside of him, new and bright.

Lorian takes Gwyndolin’s face between his palms, directing their lips to meet. Crossing the barrier of Gwyndolin's teeth, Lorian drinks from his mouth, slow, steady gulps. Gwyndolin traces his hands over now-bare skin, soaking in the penetrating warmth of Lorian’s body, skipping touches over imperfections, long held scars, and the points of definition where his muscles cut in sharply.

“May I touch you?” Lorian asks, his face still close.

Gwyndolin is still hesitant, “Where?”

Huffing slightly, Lorian specifies, “Lower...unless, you are not yet healed?”

Though he cannot support his weight, much of the length and some of the dexterity of his tendrils has returned. The serpents are without their heads, but he can twist and turn them again. And the ends are no longer damaged and raw, instead ending in a rounded tip.

Gwyndolin nods his assent, certain that if he does not like it, nothing more than a word will be necessary for Lorian to cease.

Reaching down between them, Lorian grabs the hem of Gwyndolin’s sleeping gown, pulling it up slightly to expose his tendrils more fully. He stops short of where his body shifts from scales and back to skin, instead brushing his hand over the tendril most easily accessible. Lorian lets his fingers glide over the scales, loosely wrapping his hand part way around the thickest portion. For the most part, each tendril is the same width, tapering towards the end. Lorian’s hand does not fit all the way around, but comfortably wraps around one side.

“They’re cold,” he observes, looking first at the tendril then back up at Gwyndolin, “are they meant to be? Is it uncomfortable for you?”

“Mmm,” Gwyndolin hums, trying to form an answer that will not worry Lorian excessively. “They have always been cooler to the touch,” he does not point out how blisteringly hot Lorian’s hand feels against him. “I’m fine, for the moment.”

Lorian nods, returning to his tender stroking. Sitting back again, he’s able to drag his hand down the full length, to the rounded end, where his hand can close around it, then back up. Bolder now, Gwyndolin takes one of his other tendrils, wrapping it loosely around Lorian’s waist and coming to settle around the other side.

In response, Lorian smiles, like there is a secret between them. Maybe there is. With a tug, Gwyndolin pulls him closer, until Lorian’s hips brush up against where Gwyndolin is still covered. 

“I don’t suppose,” Lorian averts his eyes, looking down at the tendril wrapped around his midsection, instead of the one in his hand. “You could...use them with me?”

Gwyndolin frowns, though he knows clear enough that Lorian must mean something intimate, he is uncertain what exactly he is asking. Unwrapping the limb from around Lorian’s waist, he starts to slot it between his legs instead, running between his thighs. He takes the tendril in Lorian’s hand away as well, maneuvering it next to the other. Slowly, he starts to wrap each tendril around Lorian’s legs, pulling his thighs apart. From the way Lorian hisses, his erect cock hard against his abdomen, Gwyndolin guesses that he’s on the right track. 

“Gwyndolin,” Lorian whispers, his eyes wide and bright and glossy. He starts to rock his hips, only barely brushing against Gwyndolin’s sleeping gown. 

Even without heads, the tendrils are thicker than a human cock, too thick to push inside of Lorian. But that does not mean that Gwyndolin cannot tease. He takes a third, brushing the tip of it along Lorian’s cleft, listening to him whine in anticipation, high and reedy and unlike the usual tenor of his voice. It’s easy enough to tug at Lorian’s thighs, to encourage him to spread them wider, though Gwyndolin does not have the strength to force him. Lorian moves his knees apart, leaning forward over Gwyndolin to brace himself on his hands and knees. 

“Like this?” Gwyndolin asks, beginning to press the end of the loose tendril between Lorian’s legs again. When Lorian nods, Gwyndolin lines up the head with Lorian’s hole, pressing firmly, but with no intent to breach.

Lorian pants, taking one of his hands to his straining cock to stroke. He urges “more,” thrusting shallowly back against the intrusion. 

Gwyndolin pushes again, and this time feels Lorian’s hole try to open up to take him. Thrusting back sharply, Lorian gasps as Gwyndolin slips inside. At the sudden shock, Gwyndolin wraps his hand around Lorian’s arm, biting his nails into tender flesh. He can feel Lorian tighten around him, though less than an inch of the tendril is inside. Holding perfectly still, Gwyndolin watches as Lorian strokes himself. Hurried now, it doesn’t take very long before he spills, fluid soaking Gwyndolin’s sleeping gown.

Pulling off, Lorian presses kisses to Gwyndolin’s cheeks, his chin, his neck, offering gratitude and apologies. Only then does Gwyndolin unclench his hand, feeling blood under his nails. 

“I still want to pleasure you,” Lorian says, his hand drifting down once more as Gwyndolin unfurls, loosening his hold. He palms over Gwyndolin’s waist, down to his groin, where the ruined sleeping gown still covers. His touch is light, careful, until Gwyndolin takes his wrist between his fingers, pushing Lorian’s hand down until it brushes over his slit. 

Shaking now, Lorian takes the hem of Gwyndolin’s nightclothes, starting to pull them up again. This time, Gwyndolin sits part way up, so Lorian can strip the soiled garment all the way off. It is strange, to be so exposed. Though Gwyndolin has been far more vulnerable in the past. 

Lorian trails his hand down Gwyndolin’s chest, reaching out to newly-exposed skin. His build is slight, though less frail than Lorian may have imagined. Leaning over, Lorian licks against one nipple, then the other, seemingly pleased with how they harden. 

Returning his attention to Gwyndolin’s slit, Lorian presses his palm flat over the opening. “You must let me know,” he whispers, “what feels best.” With two fingers he spreads open Gwyndolin’s slit, dipping inside cautiously. The sensation is not unpleasant, but there is too much friction at first. Switching from two fingers to one, Lorian tries again. The single digit feels better, slides more easily, Lorian gently prodding, trying to elicit a response. 

“Do you wetten?” Lorian asks, still gently teasing, “If you do not, perhaps I can find something...it may be better…” But just then, Lorian crooks his finger and smiles, “you do. Does that feel any easier?”

“Yes,” Gwyndolin admits, “oh,” his eyes flutter shut as he arches to take Lorian’s finger deeper. That certainly does feel better, as Lorian’s finger glides now with less resistance. 

Leaning over again, Lorian latches his mouth over one of Gwyndolin’s nipples, sucking gently as he continues to move his fingers. The combination of both is far more pleasurable than either sensation was alone, and Gwyndolin finds his mind starting to haze. He feels the stretch as Lorian adds a second finger, cautiously working him open, stretching him wider on each stroke. The fluid from his slit starts to build, coating Lorian’s fingers he prods. 

Lorian pulls off of Gwyndolin's chest, kissing his mouth instead. Gwyndolin pushes back this time, hungry, wanting more, arousal building across his bones. Bucking into Lorian’s hand, he can feel his lover’s cock, hard again and heavy against his thigh. Lorian groans at Gwyndolin shifts his leg to brush against it, moving his hips ever slightly closer. “We’ll see…” is all Gwyndolin can promise, as Lorian begins to reposition as well.

Lining his cock up with Gwyndolin’s slit, Lorian pulls the skin back as to not catch as he starts to push inside. Even just the head of his cock is thicker than two of his fingers, and at first the stretch burns in a way that is not entirely pleasant. But Lorian pushes no further, working his hands against Gwyndolin's chest instead, rolling one nipple between his fingers, then than other. Gwyndolin cannot be upset at his fixation when he enjoys the attention this much.

As Gwyndolin relaxes into the touch, Lorian sinks deeper inside. Lorian rocks into him slowly, once he is sheathed to the hilt. Realizing now that Gwyndolin enjoys himself the most when his attention is spread across his body, rather than tightly focused, he sweeps his hands down Gwyndolin's sides, across his chest, over his hips, wherever he can manage to touch while remaining buried. 

The pleasure follows wherever Lorian lays his hands, driving Gwyndolin to his edge. As he peaks, he thrashes underneath Lorian, his tendrils growing tense and flailing as he falls. Lorian promises, as he did before, that no harm will come to Gwyndolin. It does not matter that he is a child of flame. With a final thrust, Lorian spills inside of him, but Gwyndolin barely notices as the fear creeps back into his veins. 

Lorian must leave. The Ashen One and his brother await. And Gwyndolin is filled with such rage he cannot speak. The soft brush of Lorian’s bare hand against his cheek does nothing to calm Gwyndolin's ire. The bastard prince cannot so much as have the decency to tell Gwyndolin the truth. He lies so prettily, promising Gwyndolin that once the new age has begun, he will return here. And, if Gwyndolin will have him, Lorian will swear to him and him alone.

“What of your Lord?” Gwyndolin says with unrestrained bitterness.

Lorian smiles, tucking a strand of Gwyndolin's hair behind his ear. “I shared his curse, willingly, happily. And the Ashen One, Janus, freed us both. Freed my brother from his terrible burden. And now he plans to take Lothric as a husband, if he will have him. And I believe my brother will be….agreeable to the offer.”

“What good is the devotion of a man who changes loyalties so easily?” Gwyndolin mocks.

But Lorian remains undeterred, “My brother’s ultimate wish, his plainest desire, was to live his life as a man. Not as a pawn of the flame. Not to draw out a dead age. But to live for himself. Once this is possible, I will not stand in the way of his happiness.”

And Gwyndolin feels wretchedly as if he is second choice.

“And he will not stand in the way of mine,” Lorian concludes.

\--

The Age of Fire ends. And Gwyndolin learns to walk again.

Inside the darkened shrine, Gwyndolin at least has the company of Yorshka and Irina. Andre the Blacksmith is there as well, and treats the three of them with polite, sincere respect. He continues on with what work he can manage, without the aid of flame, trying to keep himself busy. 

The Handmaiden tells them tales from her youth, each more fantastic than the last. Gwyndolin believes none of them, but Yorshka and Irina seem to adore the chatter. So he sits with them on the stone steps of the shrine, listening to loosely wound tales.

The Fire Keeper doesn't return. Nor does the Ashen One, or the Princes who traveled with him to the Kiln. Yorshka explains that the others began to leave shortly after Janus departed for the Kiln, finding little reason to stay behind. Either the Ashen One would succeed, or he would fail. But the fate of existence was now in the hands of a single undead hero. 

Though the shrine is dark, Gwyndolin takes small comfort in finally being able to explore. He walks the stairs until he is winded, winds the courtyard until his ladies call for him to come spend time with them. 

This is a world he was never meant to witness. And yet, he lives.

Time has little meaning in the endless night. But Gwyndolin knows that it has been a long time since the changing of the ages. Long enough that the Ashen One should have returned. If he had any intention. 

The Handmaiden speaks of leaving this place. Surely there are other survivors, civilizations yet to be born and die. And she wishes to see them rise and fall. Yorshka is terribly happy at the prospect. Gwyndolin does not have the heart to beg her to stay.

“But you will come too, won't you?” She asks, her pale eyes all but glowing in the dark. “You can walk again. You're as strong as ever,” she bites her bottom lip, “we’ll go together. Irina too.”

Gwyndolin is not yet ready to explain to her why he must remain behind. Soon enough, he will be unable to hide his condition. But for the moment, he tries to indulge Yorshka, telling her that she need not be his keeper. He will love her always, and nothing would make him sadder than her stifling her whims on his account. 

She pouts at him, but does not argue. And in the end, the Handmaiden makes no firm preparations to depart. Irina reads to them aloud from Braille tomes. And Andre says she has a lovely voice.

Gwyndolin was perhaps naive, to think that he could keep his secret. Irina may be blind, but she is still a nun of Carim. And after an accidental brush of her fingers against his skin, she knows immediately.

“Oh, Gwyndolin,” there are tears in her voice as she throws her arms around he neck. Though his belly is only slightly rounded yet, she is careful to not press too tightly against him. “Oh, oh, oh,” she coos, “may I feel?” 

Unable to argue against what she now knows, Gwyndolin tells her she may, bracing for her soft hands against his stomach. She is exceedingly gentle, and warm, using her miracles to feel the child inside of him.

Gwyndolin is at least thankful they are alone. Yorshka is busy, helping Andre with braiding leather.

“They are healthy,” Irina says, “and strong. And I'm certain they will be beautiful.”

Gwyndolin laughs despite himself. Though this is not how he expected to be found out, he is at least relieved to have it confirmed that the child is well, and not a monstrosity. “Just one, though?” Gwyndolin wants to be sure.

Irina nods, “Just one.”

He is still terrified...of everything. But at least he now knows he does not have to bear this burden alone. He has not allowed himself to hope that Lorian will return. He may have died at the Kiln, or simply decided that Gwyndolin was excess to his future. Either way, it does not matter.

“Can you fetch Yorshka?” Gwyndolin asks, “I should tell her. She will be cross she was not the first to know.”

Irina smiles, and Gwyndolin sits down on the stone stair to wait. His hands shake, despite himself. It was not as if he believed he could keep this from the others forever. But as time has passed, he has remembered Lorian’s promise to keep Gwyndolin safe through the dark. And bitterly, he wonders if this is what the Prince meant all along. When the child is born, and their soul leaves Gwyndolin's body, does the magic vacate as well? Perhaps Lorian, however well intentioned, has only delayed what is inevitable. Such a curse. Gwyndolin does not want this.

Yorshka comes, with flowers in her hair. And Gwyndolin cannot fathom how they have grown without light. And yet, for all the blistering sun, the end of the last age was without blooms. 

“Irina said you needed me?” she asks, sitting next to Gwyndolin on the stair.

Gwyndolin nods. He must tell her now, there can be no excuse. “I am with child, dear sister.”

Yorshka frowns at first, “A god?” she questions, “a new god in the age of men?”

Gwyndolin shakes his head, though the child is perhaps more god than human by parentage. It would be best if they see themselves as belonging to the realm of man. Gwyndolin will have to make provisions. Find someone to care for them, once his life has extinguished. “One with a dark soul.”

Yorshka beams, overjoyed at the prospect of there being a little one, God or not. She laughs into her hands that the news is wonderful, and she can't wait to spoil the child.

The knot inside Gwyndolin’s chest is still there, but the binds somewhat looser. He doesn't wish to burden her with the responsibility of the child. But if she is fond of them, then perhaps she will raise them well. There is perhaps no one better to understand the perils that lie ahead. Because despite her naivety, Yorshka knows the lonely ache of being an unwanted babe. Gwyndolin may have raised her as his sister, but he cannot believe she has forgotten the loneliness she endured for years. Just as Gwyndolin cannot forget how desperately alone he felt before finding her. They saved each other.

Yorshka chatters on, trying to guess what the child will look like, their hair, their eyes, whether they will have human legs, serpents like Gwyndolin's, a tail, or something else. With Gwyndolin as a parent, it does not matter if their soul is dark, they may look like anything.

“I hope they look like a human,” Gwyndolin says, because it is true.

“Hmmm,” Yorshka taps her finger against her bottom lip, “I still think a tail would be cute.”

“That's only because yours is cute!” Gwyndolin cannot help but indulge her childlike vanity.

\--

Gwyndolin's belly grows big and round, until it is almost uncomfortable to stand. By then, laying down is just as wretched. And his back hurts. Everything is on the verge of terrible. But Irina says it will be some time yet. The child isn't ready. But will be, soon.

Andre asks to speak with Gwyndolin, offering him a chair inside the hollowed out forge. Asking if Gwyndolin needs anything, Andre fusses too much, until Gwyndolin tells him to speak his mind.

“The babe’s other father,” Andre huffs, “the Prince, he should have returned by now.”

“I do not expect him,” Gwyndolin admits. No one else has mentioned Lorian since learning of Gwyndolin's pregnancy. Though they all must suspect the child is his. He was the only one to visit Gwyndolin's room during his recovery, other than Irina and Yorshka. And very briefly Janus.

Andre nods, “No, I suppose not,” he rubs his chin through his beard. “Which is why I wished to speak to you. You need anything for the child and you need only ask. Someone needs to take responsibility. I will help you, any way I can.”

Gwyndolin smiles softly at the offer, knowing Andre’s words are sincere, “Thank you.”

\--

The child comes with little fanfare. The delivery is all but painless, Gwyndolin spared the labor pains that afflict humans in birthing. Irina and Yorshka whisper sweetly to him through the ordeal, which does take time, if not sacrifice.

Gwyndolin expects to perish soon after, his lips tightly shut when Irina asks him for a name. Though he does not answer, she bundles up the child in clean cloth, handing them back to Gwyndolin to hold.

The babe looks fully human, tiny fingers and toes, wispy, pale hair. Eyes so bright and blue that Gwyndolin nearly sobs when they open, peering up at him with an indistinct curiosity.

When Gwyndolin fails to die, he names the child Siwan, singing to them softly that they will live beautifully, even though this world is cold and dark.

After some experimentation, Irina concludes that Gwyndolin will not be able to nurse. There might be a miracle, somewhere that could help. But she doesn't know the words. Gwyndolin only asks what they must do to feed the child. He knows so little of rearing, even less so of tending to a human child.

Irina describes the plants Yorshka should gather from the graveyard. But they need animal fat as well. Yorshka insists that she will be able to hunt, using force to throw some small creature against a gravestone to snap its neck, perhaps? She knows of darker miracles, but has never used them herself. 

Gwyndolin tells her no. He can hunt just as well, though he has not held a bow since he was Aldrich’s puppet. He is sure that his aim will still be true.

They leave Siwan in Irina’s arms, Andre hovering around to watch over her, and depart for the graves. Yorshka repeats Irina’s description to herself, making sure the leaves have the right shape as she gathers. Gwyndolin waits patiently for any sign of movement. When a rabbit finally darts between the headstones, Gwyndolin reaches for the bow he has borrowed from Andre’s armory. He will need more than one, so he sends Yorshka inside with the first hare and the basketful of bright leaves. Irina may prepare the paste to feed Siwan.

He hunts until he is too exhausted to continue, downing two more rabbits, a small bird, and a creature he has never seen before. Larger than the rabbits but far smaller than a hound, with stripes over its head and down its back. The new age has bred new fauna. And the novelty makes Gwyndolin uneasy.

\--

Lorian returns, panting and feverish from exertion. His voice rings through the shrine, calling Gwyndolin's name. When Gwyndolin emerges from his room, Siwan swaddled and pressed tight to his chest, Lorian falls to his knees, begging for forgiveness.

“The bonfires have all gone dark. We could not find our way back,” he explains, “but that is no excuse. I should have found another way to return.”

“Gods mean nothing now,” Gwyndolin cannot help but be angry, “so why supplicate yourself before me?” 

“Not as a god, but as the one I adore,” he hangs his head. “Even if you hold no particular affections for me. I promised myself to you in service. And I intend to honor my word.”

Gwyndolin frowns. Inside their bundle of blankets, Siwan fusses, tiny cries that are bigger than their butterfly lungs. Lorian snaps to attention, bright eyes wide and wild with recognition. Too preoccupied with his self-debasement, he failed to notice the little bundle before it wept.

“A child...whose?” he stays on his knees.

“Mine,” Gwyndolin growls. Surely, Lorian is not so stupid. “Ours.” Since realizing he was pregnant, Gwyndolin assumed that it was always Lorian’s intention to leave a child inside him. An awful, selfish plan to guard Gwyndolin against the dark.

“We have a child,” tangled emotions flicker across Lorian’s face in quick succession. He did not know. He did not know before this moment what he had done. “I should have pushed harder to return,” he swallows thickly, “may I ask their name?”

When it becomes obvious Lorian will not stand, Gwyndolin kneels beside him, careful not to jostle and wake the babe again. “Siwan,” Gwyndolin says, “they have your eyes.” As much as an ember of anger still burns in Gwyndolin’s chest, he will not keep Lorian from his child.

Lorian reaches towards the bundle tucked against Gwyndolin's chest, but stops just short. Only when Gwyndolin nods, does Lorian continue, carefully pulling back the blanket to reveal the top of Siwan’s head. Their wispy white-blond hair is still sparse. And their eyes closed. But Gwyndolin is sure Lorian will see himself in Siwan’s features immediately. Gwyndolin did.

“They're beautiful,” Lorian whispers.

There is water in Lorian’s eyes as Gwyndolin passes the bundle so he may hold them.

\--

Janus and Lothric return to the shrine not long after. All three men had been enroute together, before Lorian broke off from the group to push ahead. Janus is in good spirits, smiling brightly. Without his armor, he looks a good deal less imposing, though his chest is broad and hands large.

Gwyndolin did not see Lothric before his departure. Though the maidens told him that the Prince had made a sharp recovery after arriving at the shrine. He is slight, yes, but now able to stand at his full height, rather than hunched over, he is nearly as tall as his brother. His silver hair is pinned up high and off his sharp-featured face and he smiles almost as much as Janus.

“It's a beautiful age, I promise you,” Lothric tells Irina. “The work of men will soon outstrip the accomplishments of gods.”

Gwyndolin cannot help but recoil a bit, though he doubts Lothric notices much. The Prince’s bright optimism is so vividly contradictory to any tale that Gwyndolin has heard about the unthroned Lord. 

“He doesn't mean it that way,” Lorian says softly, running his fingers against Gwyndolin’s arm. He is still so cautious, as if he believes Gwyndolin does not wish to be touched. That perhaps he is unworthy of sharing in true affection. In fairness, Gwyndolin has done little to dissuade him from such assumptions. 

Lothric is so preoccupied weaving his tales about civilizations yet to rise that he does not even notice Gwyndolin and Lorian standing in the open archway just above him. Siwan is half concealed. The shrine is too cold to leave them exposed. 

“But in any case,” Lothric gestures with great animation, “my brother arrived before us, yes?”

Janus drops his hand to the small of Lothric back, brushing his fingers against his robes before withdrawing. Not out of embarrassment or hesitation, but because the comfort remains behind. “Well, we didn't find his corpse on the way here….”

Lothric shoves at Janus’ shoulder, mumbling that he shouldn't joke about such things. With the Age of Fire over, none of them yet know what happens when they die. 

Gwyndolin knows. But he keeps to himself.

“I’m here, brother,” Lorian smiles, “you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.” He tugs at Gwyndolin’s wrist before heading towards the stairs. It is an invitation to follow him to the ground floor. One that Gwyndolin does not accept.

“That’s typical, is it not?” Janus jokes. 

As Lorian reaches the atrium, Janus punches him in the shoulder. They have only been parted a matter of days; this is no great reunion. 

“Where’s Gwyndolin?” Lothric chirps, “or had he gone?”

Lorian turns to peer up at where Gwyndolin still stands in the second-floor archway, his expression soft and kind. “He’s here,” is all that he says in response to his brother’s inquiry.

“You’re looking well,” Janus supplies. “Your prince was terribly concerned.” He means the statement in jest, but Gwyndolin knows now that Lorian sincerely worried for his well-being. And that knowledge sparks a warmth within him.

“You may see that there was nothing to worry over,” Gwyndolin says, still rooted in place. He cannot bring himself to join them below.

Strange, his aversion to mingling with the others now. He is not sure if it is Janus or Lothric or their combination that troubles him. Since the turning of the age, he has grown increasingly dependent on the humans who inhabit the shrine, and has a deep affection for all of them. 

Janus replies, “I’m glad.”

Lothric says nothing, only stares. If either of them notice Siwan, they keep the knowledge to themselves.

—

Of course, the child is no secret, and after the humans have eaten, Lothric narrows his eyes and asks if he can see his nephew. He nearly shouts his request up to the second floor. Though Gwyndolin no longer hovers in the archway, there was little reason to join the humans as they ate.

Before Gwyndolin can answer, Lorian comes up behind his brother, gently admonishing him to be polite. 

Gwyndolin frowns, but tells the younger prince he may come see the child if he wishes. With permission granted, he hurries towards the stairs. Bounding up the steps two at a time, Lothric acts considerably younger than his age. With the cycle of the flame broken, Gwyndolin might place him at five and twenty. Lorian stoically trails behind him.

Shifting Siwan in his arms, Gwyndolin pulls back the blanket from around their face so Lothric might see how much the child resembles his family line. Lothric’s expression does not change as he stares at the little bundle, finally asking if he may hold them?

Though Gwyndolin hesitates, there is no reason. He has let others hold Siwan without a second thought.

Lothric is careful with Siwan, supporting their head and neck with one hand as he holds them close. He stares at their face for a long moment before breathing deeply, whispering, “they look perfect.” And Gwyndolin remembers that the princes have borne witness to tiny horrors with their blood. 

As much as they were cursed by their father’s ambitions to breed the perfect Heir of Fire, the babes born after them were crooked, vile monstrosities. A mix of human, god, and dragon. But not conceived through acts of love. Instead, those children were crafted in laboratories. Managed from the start

Lorian catches Gwyndolin’s eyes as his younger brother holds their child, softly mouthing, ‘thank you.’

—

Lorian helps Gwyndolin with Siwan’s feeding, holding them as they suckle the bottle filled with Irina’s concoction. They are all unsure how the child will develop. Siwan is growing, that much is certain. But they still lack teeth and they have only just begun to crawl.

“Each time I see their face,” Lorian says, “I find them more and more beautiful.”

“Men love most that which resembles them most closely,” Gwyndolin responds.

Lorain looks up from Siwan’s face, “isn’t the same true of gods?”

“I am glad the child does not look like me.”

“They do, though,” Lorian counters, “they do.”

Gwyndolin wonders if that means Lorian still finds him beautiful as well.

—

Gwyndolin waits until Irina and Yorshka take the child on a walk through the graves before asking Lorian plainly, “do you still desire me?”

Lorian looks up, his lovely eyes finding Gwyndolin’s before wavering, looking away again. “Yes...deeply.”

“And yet you have made no overtures towards me,” he snaps shut the volume he had been scanning. There is nothing worth learning from the tome in any case. Magics function differently now. The logic of the world has changed.

Breath by breath, Gwyndolin has changed as well. He cannot say that he is worse, or better. Only that he is different. Not only on account of the Age, but Lorian too. To have been wanted, still be wanted, in a way Gwyndolin believed himself to be ever shuttered from.

Lorian stands from his place before the desk, crossing the room to join Gwyndolin on the chaise. But rather than sit beside him, Lorian kneels on the floor, his head bowed, hands kept neatly to himself. “Then consider this my overture.”

It is difficult to reject such devotion, and Gwyndolin has no desire to turn Lorian away. In truth, he has wanted his touch, his caress, to chase the gentle, fleeting, blooming feeling they shared. To indulge with the benefit of the subtle new sensations Gwyndolin has gained in the interval.

“Yes,” Gwyndolin grants permission.

And on that signal, Lorian climbs up from his place on the floor, cupping Gwyndolin’s face in his naked palms. He avoids Gwyndolin’s lips, too sacred, too sweet, too intimate, but instead presses his mouth lower, against the expanse of Gwyndolin’s neck, tilted just so to give Lorian the space to part his lips and drink of his skin.

Together, they ruck up Gwyndolin’s dress so that Lorian may watch as he slips his fingers through Gwyndolin’s slit, searching with unsure fingers until Gwyndolin grips his shoulder sharply, muttering, “there, there, there,” and using his other hand to wrap firmly around one of Gwyndolin’s tendrils, stroking in time with the beat of their desires.

Lorian works him to the point of frenzy, trying to draw out Gwyndolin’s pleasure as long as possible. Keeping his fingers buried inside, he leans over to lap over Gwyndolin’s slit, applying pressure, heat, moisture. Waiting for Gwyndolin to cry out again. He swirls his tongue and laps at him, coaxing Gwyndolin’s pleasure to unfurl.

Threading his fingers through Lorian’s hair, Gwyndolin holds him close, pleads in whispers that it is too much, just enough. Friction and the deeper pang of connection. _Connection_ with another being, a different soul. One that should by all rights be cut off from him, as he should be severed from this world. But even if it is by mistake, and not divine providence, they have both become tangled in this moment. A new cycle. One where Gwyndolin will never fit, not belong. Have no place. 

Behind his eyes is a great white. Perhaps only a pleasant veil to hide the depths of the Deep, that which once threatened to consume him whole. But as he opens them again, he is welcomed by Lorian’s face, his lips damp and smiling. A promise that he does not speak, and yet, Gwyndolin still hears.

There are many Ages yet to come. And Gwyndolin was not destined to bear witness to them all. And yet, despite his failures, he may allow himself to find joy that which is freely offered, and can make an offering of himself in return.


End file.
